


Falling into the Sky

by wesleyfanfiction_archivist



Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-07-01
Updated: 2005-06-30
Packaged: 2018-05-31 10:27:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6466711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wesleyfanfiction_archivist/pseuds/wesleyfanfiction_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wesley's a long way from home... written for the Escape from L.A ficathon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Falling into the Sky

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Versaphile, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [WesleyFanfiction.net](http://fanlore.org/wiki/WesleyFanFiction.Net). Deciding that it needed to have a more long-term home, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact the e-mail address on [WesleyFanfiction.net collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/wesleyfanfiction/profile).

NOTES: Written for the “Escape from L.A ficathon. Request was Gen or Slash – Giles or Spike. No mean or ubersub Wesley. My four requirements were: set in an East Coast city –Boston or NYC; leather jacket; using magic; solving a mystery or problem. 

This is gen – set some time after the end of Season 4. The jacket ended up being suede. Apologies for my mangling of the Latin language. huge and heartfelt hugs to the wonderful Lonely Brit, who beta-ed so beautifully.

Title and quote from "A Thousand Miles" by Vanessa Carlton.

 

_“If I could fall_  
Into the sky  
Do you think time  
Would pass me by”  
(A Thousand Miles – Vanessa Carlton) 

**Falling into the Sky**

The noise was painfully insistent, a distant, familiar buzz in his ear, pulling him unwillingly back to consciousness. Wesley reached out blindly and slammed his palm down on top of the alarm clock, cutting off the shrill chirp quite effectively. 

His mouth was dry, and his head throbbed in the remembered rhythm of the alarm. He rubbed his hand over his sandpaper chin, but despite the severity of his hangover, he possessed enough self-awareness to avoid the rough-edged scar along the side of his jaw. He didn’t think he’d ever get drunk enough to forget that. No matter how hard he tried.

He braced himself, and then opened his eyes. The curtains were drawn, but the shaft of morning light that pierced the gloom was enough to burn his retinas for the rest of the day. Or so it felt. 

He made it to the bathroom, then leant weakly against the wall, waiting for the nauseous pain in the pit of his stomach to subside. When he’d satisfied himself that he was not actually going to throw up, he stumbled over to the sink and turned on the taps. 

The face in the mirror was horribly pale, and the circles under his eyes were dark enough to be bruises, but at least they matched the delicately bloodshot quality of his eyes. Wesley glanced down at the contact lenses in solution and winced inwardly. Definitely a glasses day.

The five o’clock shadow was more of a quarter past five the next morning one, but he really didn’t trust himself with a razor today. He’d just be a little more unapproachable than usual. Not that that would make much difference to his colleagues. They rarely approached him at the best of times.

He turned on the shower taps and waited for the water to warm. It didn’t. He’d left a note last night for the building Super, but clearly nothing had been done. Well, there was no way he was showering in ice cold water. That was just a little too close to his boarding school regime of character building morning runs followed by cold showers for his liking.

He washed as best he could and pulled on a dark charcoal grey knit shirt over the top of a paler long-sleeved t-shirt. And still he was freezing. Bloody heating. The building was a nineteenth century Brownstone, with a notoriously temperamental heating system. It really didn’t help that they were suffering a highly unseasonable cold snap. He lifted his suede jacket off the back of a chair and pulled it on, shivering a little. 

He eyed the coffee machine on the counter rather longingly, but it was already five past eight. He’d just have to suffer the indignity of forgetting the jargon for ordering a simple cup of coffee at one of those corporate coffee places. He didn’t care about decaf, or latte, or expresso with a hint of caramel. He just wanted coffee. Preferably strong and black. 

He thought suddenly of Gunn’s reaction to that particular rant, and for the first time in a long while it didn’t hurt to think of him. There was sadness, but it was more of a gentle melancholy now. He might even have smiled a little.

Wesley swallowed his rapidly becoming traditional breakfast of two Advil, the availability of which was one of the few reasons he was glad he’d stayed in the US. Then again, it wasn’t as if he’d had much choice.

*~*~*~*

The air outside was razor sharp, catching in his chest and sending him into a fit of coughing that doubled him over on the steps of his building. He wiped his hand over his mouth and pulled his jacket closer, then set off for work. 

He preferred to walk, even on the coldest mornings. It was only five blocks; and he rather liked the solitude of the journey. There was something horribly claustrophobic about the T, and the slightly heightened probability of catching cold was infinitely preferable to a dark, stuffy, overcrowded underground train.

And to be honest, the city did remind him of home. It was as if he almost belonged here, in a way he’d never felt in Los Angeles. It had always felt foreign; the weather too perfect, the skies too blue and the smiles too white – he’d always distrusted L.A just a little. The cool greyness of Boston seemed better suited to his moods these days.

Of course, he could have done without this cold snap. He shivered again, and hurried along the pavement, his head down. Two blocks from his building he passed a little play park, a tiny green space situated between the buildings. He looked up, surprised to hear a rhythmic squeak coming from the park, and saw a little girl of no more than six years playing on the swings. 

She was dressed in a short-sleeved summer dress, white ankles socks and sandals, but she didn’t seem to be feeling the cold. She smiled at him and raised her hand in a half-wave as he passed. She looked strangely familiar, but he couldn’t place where he might have seen her before. Perhaps she lived in his building, though that seemed unlikely, as he’d never heard any children playing there. Everyone kept themselves pretty much to themselves.

Wesley looked around for the parent who should be accompanying her, but there was no one but the girl in the park. He frowned at the thought of such a small child out by herself so early in the morning. Honestly, some people didn’t deserve to be parents.

He hunched his shoulders into his jacket and walked on, sighing as he noticed the interminable queue at the coffee place nearest his office. If he stopped for coffee, he’d be late. And he couldn’t be late, not with the amount he had to get through today. He hurried past, studiously ignoring the scent of fresh coffee that wafted on the cool breeze. It was a long shot, but his secretary might have actually managed to arrive on time and finally figured out how to work the coffee machine. A very long shot.

He reached the door of the Council building and had just put his hand out to push it, when it swung open. Wesley had to step back to allow the two women to exit. They were deep in conversation, and barely acknowledged the fact that they had almost knocked him over. Typical. Common courtesy was a thing of the past, even in the hallowed halls of the Watchers Council.

Wesley recognised them as secretaries in the research department, although how the hell they managed to do any typing with nails that length was beyond him. He thought rather fondly of the typing pool back when he had been apprenticed in London. The efficient and strangely erotic air of slightly repressed sexuality; all pinned-up hair, high collars and wire-framed glasses. 

There was nothing repressed about the sexuality here. The effect was rather low-budget Lilah; both women were heavily made-up, wearing low-cut blouses and pencil tight skirts which made no concession to the temperature outside. Fashion before comfort, Wesley supposed.

“She’s had enough. And I don’t blame her.” 

The blonder of the two nodded decisively. “I heard her say she’s going to hand in her notice when he gets back.”

Wesley groaned inwardly, recognizing the familiar theme in their conversation. It had to be his secretary. The woman was hopelessly ineffectual, unable to complete the simplest task he set her, and on top of that, she was prone to bouts of hysteria. Her latest mania concerned the activities of a poltergeist in their offices. Wesley could understand if she had been an ordinary civilian working in a non-mystical office block, but the woman worked for the Watcher’s Council, for God’s sake. She must have had some experience of the supernatural to have even applied for such a job.

Wesley pressed the call button for the lift and looked at his watch. It was already eight thirty and he had a mountain of work on his desk, an overflowing in-tray that never seemed to get any emptier. And as much as he hated to admit it, he was rather intrigued by the recent supernatural activity. He’d spent a great deal of time researching the building’s history, and he was convinced that the solution to the poltergeist problem lay in its past.

The lift doors remained stubbornly shut. For the third time this week. Wesley swore under his breath and headed for the stairs, making a mental note to send maintenance another slightly more sternly-worded reprimand. 

The stairs were housed in the original part of the building, built in the seventeenth century. His research had uncovered the fact that it had been used as a public courthouse at the time of the Massachusetts witch trials, and Wesley rather suspected that the poltergeist activity might well be the ghostly vengeance of an unfortunate victim who had languished in the cells. He had spent most of yesterday afternoon preparing a simple cleansing spell, which would lay the spirit to rest, and perhaps more importantly, force his secretary to do some actual work for a change.

But clearly not today. He entered the office and sighed. Her desk was a mass of untyped letters, unwashed coffee cups and crumpled tissues. A tabloid newspaper lay on top of her steno pad, the front page proclaiming the latest twists and turns in the trial of the serial killer who had murdered several children in the city last year. Wesley had witnessed some horrific crimes over the years, but they were generally perpetrated by demons. This case was chilling, made all the more terrible by the realisation that these atrocities were committed by a man, supposedly possessed of a soul. 

Next to the paper, the answering machine was flashing the existence of a new message with undeniable vehemence. Wesley leaned over and pressed a button. 

_“Watcher. Finally tracked you down.”_

Wesley thought he recognised the voice, south of the Watford Gap with a not completely hidden trace of Home Counties, but he couldn’t be sure.

_“Look, know there’s no love lost between you and the great poof. But he’s in trouble. I’m talking end of the world trouble, and you know what that’s like, right?”_

Spike? Wesley stared at the machine in confusion. Last he’d heard, Spike had gone off to Africa and earned himself a soul. As far as he knew the vampire had returned to Sunnydale to help Buffy with the impending apocalypse there. So what was he doing with Angel in Los Angeles?

_“I can’t really talk over the phone. Unsecured line and that. Just wanted to give you a heads up on the whole thing. Just check the post, mate. Ta.”_

The message ended and Wesley stared at the machine for a long moment. _No love lost between you and the poof._ Well, that was one way to put it. 

He’d pulled him up from the ocean, stood with him against the Beast, but Wesley had known even then that he was never going to be forgiven for Connor. Not by any of them. Wesley had cut his losses after Jasmine was defeated, ignoring their half-hearted protests to stay. He had known then that it was time to go. He’d finally outstayed his welcome.

He looked around for the morning post, but as far as he could determine, there was nothing on his secretary’s desk. He opened the door to his own office, and there it was. It looked about the size of a book, perhaps a prophecy of some sort. He felt his heart sink. Because those always went so well.

But Angel was in trouble. Bad enough trouble that he was willing to ask Wesley for help. Or perhaps not. Maybe Spike had taken it upon himself to call for Wesley’s help, knowing that Angel himself never would. And that thought made him inexplicably sad. 

Wesley ran his thumb under the seal of the envelope and eased the flap open. As he pulled out a slim leather-bound file, something else fell out of the envelope onto his desk. The light from the window flickered across a silver blade, and Wesley stepped back instinctively. His encounter with Justine had left him with a certain wariness where blades were concerned.

The knife was quite impressive, the blade curving wickedly from hilt to tip. Wesley lifted it carefully and was surprised by the jolt of energy that ran through him as he held the weapon. It was definitely mystical; he could actually feel the power radiating from it. He closed his hand around the handle, and suddenly the atmosphere in the room changed. The sky changed to the colour of sunset, and the room grew darker, the reddening hue almost oppressive. 

Wesley could feel it; the sense of another’s presence in the room, and it wasn’t a benevolent spirit. He kept his hand tight around the weapon, afraid that if he let it go, the darker presence might seize it from him.

A shriek from the outer office broke his reverie. He looked up to see his secretary standing in the doorway, her hand over her mouth in a time-honoured gesture of pure terror. The man standing behind her was one of the Council’s newer recruits; Wesley had seen him a few times in the staff library, but didn’t know his name. He was holding a book, a candle, and what looked suspiciously like a cross.

His secretary chewed her fist in a rather overblown dramatic gesture. “See, I told you!”

Wesley set the knife carefully on the desk and folded his arms. “Alright, this time I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. Even I agree there’s a presence here.”

The young Watcher frowned impressively. “Stay back, Miss Harkness.” He waved his crucifix rather ineffectually. “Spirit depart!”

Good God. It beggared belief. Seven years of Watcher Academy, four years at university and god knew how many years of apprenticeship, and this was the best the Council was capable of producing. Wesley sighed theatrically.

“Put the crucifix down. Surely you realise you can’t use a generic exorcism here. There’s research to be done. For God’s sake, at least attempt to apply a little methodology!”

The man wavered uncertainly, fumbling with the crucifix, which slipped from his grasp and landed on the carpet. He blushed crimson and bent to retrieve the cross. Wesley and his secretary tutted in harmony, for once united in censure. 

“I do know what I’m doing, you know.” The man sounded as if he was trying to convince himself. Then he lifted the book, and began to read.

“Crux sancta sit mihi lux. Non draco sit mihi dux Vade retro… um, hang on a minute…”

Unbelievable. Not only was the man persisting with an incorrect incantation, he was performing it in possibly the worst spoken Latin Wesley had ever had the misfortune to witness. It was truly excruciating. He could stand it no longer. He fixed the man with the most venomous glare he could muster, then strode out of the office, slamming the door behind him.

 

*~*~*~*

“You’re in early today.” He finished polishing the glass and set it back under the bar. “Hard day at the office?”

Wesley grimaced in reply, pulling his jacket around him as he settled on the bar stool.

“I’d offer you coffee, but from that look I’m guessing caffeine isn’t going to do the trick.” He waved his hand towards the frankly rather impressive display of whiskies. “What’s your poison?”

Wesley cast an appreciative eye over the selection of single malts. “Surprise me.” 

The bar man nodded and reached up to the top shelf. 

“And don’t even try to palm that Irish bog water off on me,” Wesley said calmly, as the bar man lifted down a bottle of Jameson’s. 

There was a deep sigh and the malt was replaced. “Jameson’s Green Spot. You know, there’s people would pay a hundred dollars a bottle for that.”

“More fool them, then.” 

“What about this?” The bar man poured a finger from an undisclosed bottle.

Wesley held the glass up for examination. The whiskey was pale, almost the colour of Chardonnay, and it clung delicately to the sides of the tumbler as he swirled it. 

There was the scent of sea tangle and iodine, and he took a swig, tasting salt and smoke and surprisingly little peat. It was possibly the most wonderful Islay he ever tasted, but he couldn’t quite recognise the distillery. 

“Okay, you win. Again.”

The bar man grinned. “Caol Ila.”

Wesley shook his head. “Liar. I’m not stupid. The nose is all wrong.”

The grin became smug. “Twenty-five year old.” He held out the bottle for inspection. 

Wesley stared at the bottle, then looked up at the bar man. “Tell me, Frank, how is it that an ordinary little Boston bar has a selection of rare single malts that would make a connoisseur weep with envy?”

“I’m dedicated to my craft.” Frank nodded decisively and poured another finger into Wesley’s glass. 

Wesley took another sip, feeling the liquid burn a pleasant path to his stomach, feeling the warmth seep into his limbs, the first warmth he’d felt all day. 

“So, the office stressing you out again?”

Frank had heard the expurgated version of Wesley’s woes with his secretary; Wesley had been necessarily sketchy with some of the more supernatural details. As far as Frank knew, he was head of translations for an academic publishing firm, with a secretary on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

“She’s driving me crazy.” Wesley rested his head on his hand and sucked on the rim of his glass. 

Frank screwed the lid back onto the Caol Ila, then replaced it on the shelf behind the bar. 

“Do you ever think it’s maybe time for you to be leaving?” 

Wesley sat up straight. “What?”

Frank leaned against the bar, and fixed him with a thoughtful look. “You look like a man who needs to move on. I’m just saying.”

Wesley stared into his glass, and the liquid seemed to shimmer a little, the faint greenish hue burnished suddenly with a golden fire. “I’m afraid I don’t really have anywhere else I can go. I’ve rather exhausted my options.” 

“Now, I know that’s not true. There’re plenty of people who’d appreciate a man with your talents. I could put in a word for you…”

Wesley shook his head. “No,” he said curtly, then made a conscious effort to soften his tone. “Really, Frank, I’m very grateful, but there’s no need. I’m perfectly… content where I am,” he lied.

“Fair enough. “ He poured another measure into the glass. “There you go.” He nodded to Wesley. “That’s guaranteed to warm you up. Why don’t you take your jacket off; stay a while.”

Wesley glanced at his watch, and was horrified to realize that it was already past four o’clock in the afternoon. Where the hell had the day gone to? He drained his glass and stood up, pulling his coat tightly around him. 

“Sorry, Frank, I have to go. I didn’t realize how late it was.” He put his hand into this pocket, but could find no sign of his wallet. “Damn, I must have left it at home…”

Frank waved his hand dismissively. “Go on. I’ll put it on your tab. You’ll be back.” There was no trace of smugness in his smile this time; he seemed almost wistful.

“Thanks.” Wesley smiled back and then headed towards the door.


	2. Home Bound

_"Making my way downtown_  
Walking fast  
Faces passed  
And I'm home bound”  
(A Thousand Miles - Vanessa Carlton) 

**Home Bound**

They’d managed to fix the lift; that at least was something. Wesley stepped in after the two younger Watchers, and hunched in the corner, purposely radiating hostility. He was in no mood for polite chit chat. 

“They managed a temporary exorcism, but apparently he’s furious.” 

“Are you surprised? I mean, Richards? Would you want him messing about with magic in your office?”

Wesley rolled his eyes heavenwards. That idiot of a Watcher had probably called forth all manner of spirits; it would take him forever to fine tune the cleansing ritual now. He followed the two men out of the lift and strode off down the corridor to his office. Then paused at the door.

He could hear Miss Harkness sniffling, her default setting these days, and another voice, gently stern and strangely familiar. The voice was chiding her quietly.

“This is a very complex situation, Marion. Requiring a delicacy of touch and a deal of experience that Richards is sadly lacking. You’re both very lucky you didn’t do more damage.”

Miss Harkness sobbed something that sounded like an apology into her handkerchief.

‘Now, now. There’s no need for tears. I’ll sort it out.” 

Who the hell did this man think he was? Wesley pushed the door open and strode into his office in indignation. 

“Now, see here! This is my office, and I can assure you I’m quite capable of sorting this out without any help from you, you condescending bast…”He broke off; stared at the man in disbelief. 

“Giles? Thank God. At last someone in this bloody building with a bit of common sense.”

Miss Harkness’ eyes widened, then she pressed her hankie to her mouth and ran past Wesley, sobbing inconsolably.

“You see the sort of thing I’ve had to put up with recently. “ Wesley waved his hand in the direction of the retreating secretary. “I have to say, I’m not too impressed with the Council’s new vetting procedures.”

He was hoping for a smile, at least an acknowledgment of the gibe, but Giles remained rigid, his face pale and grim.

“Come on, Giles. It’s just a joke.” He sighed deeply. “You’re not still holding a grudge over Orpheus, surely?”

He remembered the rather cool phone call after Giles had found out exactly how Faith had managed to recapture Angelus. 

“Wesley?” Giles’ voice was an incredulous whisper. 

Wesley was aware his appearance had changed considerably since they had last met, but even so, Giles was overdoing the whole shocked disbelief act just a little.

“In the flesh.”

Giles lifted his right hand and uncurled his palm. “Appare anima.”

There was a reddish glow, a spinning ball of fire that hovered above the palm of his hand. Then Wesley felt a surge of energy, a spark of electricity that jolted between them, and he was thrown hard against the desk. Giles gasped, then staggered backwards, his palm empty.

Wesley straightened and fixed Giles with a furious glare. “What the hell do you think you’re playing at? You come in here performing materialization spells when you have no idea of the forces we might be dealing with here. Have you taken leave of your senses?”

Or perhaps he had taken leave of his. He was busy pondering the wisdom of yelling at Ripper Giles when he realised that Giles hadn’t spoken. He was staring at him with that same expression of shocked incredulity. 

Wesley followed his gaze, fearing that he might have actually conjured up the dark spirit he had sensed in the office earlier. He looked over his shoulder, but all he saw was his desk; the contents of the envelope from L.A spread as he had left them this morning. 

“What is it? Giles, what’s wrong?”

When Giles spoke, it was in a voice that Wesley had never heard from him before. The sort of voice that doctors use when informing soon-to-be bereaved relatives. Calm, quiet, and infinitely gentle.

“You are, Wesley.”

*~*~*~*

 

It could not be. Wesley slumped in the armchair, trying to ignore the bile that rose in his throat. 

“What’s the last thing you remember?” Giles was over at the desk, pouring two generous measures of Laphroaig. _His_ Laphroaig. 

“We defeated Jasmine, ended world peace and got offered the directorship of Hell, Incorporated.” Wesley stared into the drink that Giles handed to him. “I think it was about then that I realized it was time for me to move on.” He stopped abruptly, remembering Frank’s advice to him in the bar. 

Giles had that same frighteningly gentle tone. “You were there for almost a year. You and the rest of the team.” Wesley couldn’t fail to notice the way he didn’t say Angel.

‘What happened?” He wasn’t quite ready to get into the details of his employment at Wolfram & Hart. Easier to go straight to the end and work backwards, if necessary.

“I think there were… some differences of opinion between your team and the Senior Partners, regarding the everyday running of an evil law firm.” The understatement made Wesley smile, in spite of himself. “There was an apocalyptic battle.” 

Wesley rolled his eyes theatrically. “Another one?” He was inordinately pleased to see Giles give a small grin. 

“I’m afraid you didn’t survive.” 

He didn’t pull any punches, and for that Wesley was grateful. 

“You defeated your foe, but as far as I understand, you were mortally wounded while doing so.” 

“I see.” Wesley shifted position in the chair, pulled his jacket around him. “How was I… killed, exactly?”

Giles cleared his throat, took another swallow of whiskey. “Unbutton your jacket.” 

Wesley frowned at this non-sequitur. “I’m sorry?” 

Giles repeated the instruction quietly, and in the end Wesley obeyed, shivering a little with cold. He looked down and saw a dark stain on his shirt, put his hand there to touch a sticky dampness. He looked up at Giles, who nodded gently.

“You were stabbed in the gut.”

He didn’t remember that. He could remember being shot, having his throat cut, the cold seeping into him, lulling him to sleep. But not this. This wasn’t real, had to be a trick.

“I’m not dead. I can’t possibly be.” He remembered the call from Spike and gestured triumphantly to the desk. ‘They called me. Needed my help with the apocalypse.” 

_…know there’s no love lost between you and the great poof_

And he understood even before Giles had to explain it. “Spike was calling you. This is your office, isn’t it?”

“I’m sorry.” Giles swirled the whiskey in his glass. “I’ve been in London for the last few weeks, and I only got back last night.”

He picked up Spike’s letter from his desk. “I read through this earlier. Apparently the apocalypse is proving to be more permanent than they’d anticipated.” He lifted the ornate dagger carefully, and Wesley couldn’t quite control the hiss of pain that escaped him as Giles’ fingers tightened round the hilt. 

“Sorry.” Giles set the weapon down, and the pain in Wesley’s side eased. 

“So that’s the knife, then.” Wesley stared at it, searching for some memory of the object, but there was nothing. Then he remembered earlier, when he had held the weapon. He had felt something then.

“I need to touch it,” he explained as he reached out to grasp the dagger. There was that same electrical charge, the air shimmering and the light fading to a burnished red, then the sense of another’s presence. Giles seemed to flicker on the edge of his vision, and then he was fading too. 

“You didn’t kill me, boy. Once again you fail.” There was something he recognized about the voice, although that could have had more to do with Wesley’s familiarity with that particular observation than the actual accent.

There was a rasp of breath behind him and he turned, caught a glimpse of a wizened old man, trailing something behind him.

“You will always fail.” The man straightened suddenly and reached forward, but Wesley stepped away, dropped the knife onto the desk.

“Giles, the knife.”

The office brightened instantly, and the old man was gone. Wesley slumped against the desk, the wound in his side throbbing insistently.

Giles let go of the knife, and the pain immediately receded. “What happened? Where did you go?”

“I saw him – the one who killed me. He’s not dead.” 

Giles was already flipping through the documents Spike had sent. “Let me see. Ah, you defeated a wizard named Vail.”

Wesley knew that name. “Vail?” He moved round to the side of the desk, opened the file he had compiled on the history of the building. “Cyvus Vail?”

Giles nodded. “Do you remember the fight?”

Wesley shook his head, and ran his finger down the page. “Here it is, I knew I’d heard that name somewhere.” He began to read out loud. “The presiding magistrate at the trial of the remaining accused was one Cyvus Vail. He undertook the examination of the accused personally and found evidence of the devil’s mark upon their person.” Wesley looked over at Giles. “He was here during the witch trials of the late seventeenth century. And you say he’s a wizard? “

Giles’ brow creased in a thoughtful frown. “Well, if he’s still around over three hundred years later, one would assume he had some fairly impressive supernatural help.”

“Sacrificing the innocent to gain immortality, while diverting suspicion from himself.”

“Hiding in plain sight.” There was a look of revulsion on Giles’ face. 

“I suppose it makes sense, in a horribly cruel and calculating fashion.”

“So, why has he come back here?” Giles was leafing through the documents on the desk. “It says here you defeated him.”

Wesley looked at the knife on the table, and tired to ignore the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. 

“It’s the knife. It’s keeping him here. He’s bound to the knife.” 

*~*~*~*

It was so strange to see him like this. Well, it had been even stranger to hear him without seeing him, but this was still fairly bizarre. The thing was, he didn’t look much like a ghost. Giles wasn’t sure what he should have expected, but a rumpled, unshaven and rather mean-looking guy in a suede jacket wasn’t it. He remembered Wesley in perfect suits, with slicked back hair, glasses, and an air of smug innocence about him. 

Well, he’d had that knocked out of him. Literally, if the notes Spike has sent were to be believed. True to Watcher form, Wesley had kept diaries of his time in L.A, and it appeared there had been a good deal of knocking. A fair amount of cutting, shooting, stabbing and blowing up too. It was a wonder the man had survived as long as he did.

“I think I’ve found it.” Wesley looked up from a pile of texts, his voice full of excitement at his discovery, and Giles was reminded briefly of the eager young Watcher who had so exasperated him five years ago.

He gave him a smile of encouragement and took the proffered text. “You think this will work?”

“The only way to break Vail’s hold is to destroy the object which is holding him here. If I can get him to touch the knife, then this incantation should destroy it, and him. The situation in L.A should improve once the final member of this Black Thorn circle is defeated.”

“It sounds astonishingly simple when you put it like that.” 

Wesley stood up, rubbing his hand over his chin, as if deep in thought.

“I’m sensing there’s a complication.” 

“Not exactly a complication – it’s just that we have only one chance at this. Vail is summoned here when I touch the knife, and if we fail to complete the spell the first time, he’ll know what we’re trying to do and won’t touch it again.” Wesley’s voice became very serious. “There can’t be any mistakes.”

“There won’t be.” Giles read over the incantation, which was a reasonably simple deconstruction spell. “You just make sure he’s holding the knife, and I’ll do the rest.”

Wesley gave a wry smile. “I have to say, I didn’t think we’d ever be working together again.

“Well, certainly not under these circumstances.” Giles sat back in his chair. “I suppose I’d assumed you’d be rather more corporeal.” He paused. “Speaking of which…’

Wesley raised his eyebrow. “Let’s not get sidetracked.” He bent his head again, making a few notes on a pad next to the open volumes.

“Apparently it worked with Spike. “ Giles folded his arms and eyed him confrontationally. “Which I admit is not the best recommendation ever, but –“

“Let’s just get rid of this Vail. Then we can debate the metaphysics of my non-existence.”

“Fair enough. “ Giles read over the spell, then looked up again. “You ready to do this?”

Wesley closed his notebook, set it carefully to one side, then met his gaze. “As I’ll ever be.”

*~*~*~*

They had drawn the curtains, and a heavy pillar candle flickered in the centre of the desk. They sat now in opposing armchairs; the spell book open in front of Giles, the curved knife on the low table next to Wesley.

“Giles.” Wesley spoke quietly, his courteous tone belying the urgency in his voice. 

Giles looked up “What is it?”

“Don’t stop. No matter what happens. We’ve only got one chance.”

“It’ll be fine, really. The spell is straightforward enough.” Giles gave him another encouraging smile, and Wesley did his best to return it. 

Then he seized the knife.

There wasn’t really much to observe. Wesley simply shimmered a little, then faded to ghostly translucency. There was a flicker of the candle, and the temperature in the room dropped a little. That must be Vail. Giles squinted, trying to catch a glimpse of the wizard, but all he saw was the reflection of the candle flame in the blade of the knife.

The dagger seemed to hang in the air, as if suspended by an invisible hand, then it moved forward, the blade disappearing into darkness. It was then that Giles heard the voice.

He couldn’t quite make out the words; it was little more than a rasping croak, but the malice in the tone was unmistakeable. He smoothed his hand over the page and began the incantation.

The candle flickered again, and this time Giles caught a glimpse of a hunched figure, sparse white hair drawn back from a shrivelled skull, a clawed fist curled over the hilt of the knife. The wizard was bent forward, his hand thrust away from his body. 

And then he saw Wesley.

He was suspended a foot or so above the floor, his arms and legs rigid, the blade of the knife buried to the hilt in his side. 

Giles broke off in mid-chant. “Wesley!”

Wesley remained stiff, but Giles could hear his voice very faintly, mocking the wizard. “Come on, Vail. This is your chance to finish it.”

_\- only got one chance…_

Giles swallowed, and continued the incantation. The candle flame grew taller, then suddenly was engulfed in the far greater light that bathed the dagger. The wizard screamed in frustrated realization, but it was too late. The hilt of the weapon was already disintegrating, taking his hand with it. 

The wizard’s arm and torso were next, and the light in the room became almost unbearably bright. Giles brought his own arm up to shield his eyes, and uttered the final few lines of the spell. There was a flash, and then the candle was blown out, the room plunged into darkness.

The spell book slipped from his fingers; fell with a bang onto the desk. Giles groped blindly for the lamp switch, and the room was infused with a warm golden glow. He looked around, whispered the summoning enchantment, but there was no sign of knife, wizard or Wesley.

“Wesley?” 

Giles really should have known it wouldn’t be that simple. He turned to the desk, intending to find the spell book and figure out what had gone wrong, when he noticed Wesley’s notebook. Or more precisely the post-it note with his name on, which Wesley had somehow managed to stick on the front of the notebook without him noticing.

He opened it and flipped through the pages till he came to the most recent entry.

_Giles,_

_I’m assuming that if you’re reading this I’ve moved beyond the veil, if you’ll forgive the pun. You’ve probably guessed that there were a few details I omitted to tell you when we planned the exorcism._

_The knife was indeed the key to Vail’s continued existence on this plane, for want of a better word. But it wasn’t only the knife that bound him here. I read my own notes on the preparation for the battle with Vail, and it appears that I had the ridiculous notion of using blood magic to defeat him, if all else failed._

_And apparently all else did indeed fail, if the account that Spike enclosed here is to be believed. I used blood magic, and managed to bind both our spirits to the knife. Inextricably linked. You see where I’m going with this, don’t you?_

_I’m sorry for misleading you, but I had a feeling you’d want to spend time searching for an alternative solution, when this was clearly the best option available._

_And as tempting as hanging around the Boston offices, scaring the daylights out of eager new Council recruits sounds; I’m quite content to leave that to you. I’m sure you’ll do a splendid job._

_If I can ask a favour – would you check on the situation in L.A – and provide Council support if necessary? Angel won’t ask, you know. He’s much too proud. Pig-headed, actually, but don’t tell him I said so._

_Also, if you get the chance, there’s a rather decent bottle of Lagavulin at my flat – I’d like it to go to a good home._

_Regards,_

_W.W-P._

 

Giles stared at the note for a long time, then lifted the phone.

“Miss Harkness?... yes, all sorted now. If you wouldn’t mind, I need the contact number for Angel Investigations in L.A…. Right. Put me through.”

*~*~*~*

He stepped out of the building into the warmth of a June evening. The air was almost balmy, a far cry from the bitter chill of before. He slipped his jacket off, slung it carelessly over his shoulder, and began the walk home. 

The wound in his side was gone now, healed over as Giles had chanted the deconstruction spell when Vail had plunged the knife into his side. Wesley sent a silent prayer of gratitude that it was Rupert Giles’ office he’d ended up haunting. Giles had been exactly as he’d hoped; clearly annoyed that he’d been kept in the dark, but still completing his task with faultless precision, knowing it was the right thing to do. A man who understood the nature of sacrifice better than most. 

Still, Wesley was rather glad he wasn’t still there now; he really didn’t fancy sitting through the lecture on the foolishness of martyrdom that Giles would surely have given him. Not that it wasn’t well-deserved.

He walked past the play park, and the same little girl from this morning was still swinging happily. He knew now exactly where he’d seen her before. He thought of the newspaper on Miss Harkness’ desk, the gruesome details of the serial murders last summer. He remembered the kindergarten photograph of the sixth victim. 

She was still missing her front tooth.

He waved to her, and she smiled and waved back, slipped off the swing. He watched her as she skipped off down the pavement, until she reached her building. The late evening sun cast a rosy glow over the steps and her feet seemed to barely touch the stone as she climbed home. 

Not far to go now. 

Wesley headed along the street, past the empty building he’d thought was home, till he came to his destination. He’d never actually realised how he’d got there before, although he supposed those botched exorcisms that Richards carried out had played a part. He looked up at the sign over the door, and couldn’t help the grin that spread across his face. 

Then climbed the steps to Doyle’s Bar and opened the door.


End file.
